


the former traveller, seeking solace

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: woven upon the loom of fate [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Castlevania (TV), Game of Thrones (TV), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: (aftermath), Actor!Theon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Forgemaster!Jon, Gen, M/M, OCs are there to advance the plot they're not a big part, Possibly Pre-Slash, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rampod is implied, Theon lost some fingers but nothing else, but when your main weapon is the bow that's pretty traumatic, post-torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Braavos was so loud. There were people everywhere; people in bright colours, mummers dancing, juggling and laughing in the street for coin. Priests of many faiths, wailing and admonishing. There were beautiful women in scandalous dresses, clad so that Theon could not distinguish between highborn and whore. Men with shirts hanging open from their shoulders entirely unthreaded, challenged any man with a sword to a duel, once darkness fell. Theon quickly learned to keep his sword at his lodgings. He had a small dirk that was easier to conceal, and he patted it frequently to remind himself it was still there. He had long carried a dirk, and a bow with arrows...When Ramsay lets Theon go, he runs away to Essos, escapes the Long Night, joins a Braavosi acting troupe, and has a jolly old time. Featuring: vampires, nightmarish hallucinations, parallel universes and a Jon Snow who knows how to wield magic, not necessarily in that order.You do not need to have seen Castlevania!ON HIATUS WHILE I WORK ON MY NOVEL





	the former traveller, seeking solace

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the Secondary and Tertiary Universes of my lone traveller multiverse. It's not necessary to read all of the multiverse. It might help to read the rest of the Tertiary Universe however, (found in the series tags) for backstory on the place Theon ends up in, but it's not essential.

If he retained all of his fingers, Theon might have considered joining a sellsword company. It was what disgraced Westerosi men did, if they ran away to Essos. It was an acceptable form of exile. It allowed you to hone your skills, whilst hoping circumstances would change to allow you to return home.

Theon did not have a home to return to. He wondered now if he ever truly had. Pyke certainly wasn't his home; his father and sister had made that quite clear. Robb and the Starks had torn him from his birth family, confusing his priorities, so that he had actually believed himself to be a Northman. Oh, Theon had claimed his Ironborn heritage at every opportunity, that was true. But he had acted, and fought beside, and spoken as a Northman. He had the sensibilities of a Northman. He was not a Stark, but he was of their household. But no one _wanted_ him in the North.

*

When Ramsay had murdered his father, Theon had been so sure he was next. There was nothing more he could do for his master. He had followed Ramsay about like a loyal pup, begging for scraps. But now Ramsay had a beautiful Stark princess for a wife, and had saved a Stark king from his own father. There was nothing Theon could offer him, that the North would not serve up tenfold, on a silver platter.

Meek and resigned, Theon had curled up in the small room he had been afforded in the servant's quarters, and waited to die. But when Ramsay came to him, it was not to offer death; it was to offer freedom.

Far, far too much freedom. Theon didn't know what to do with any of it.

"B-but, master, where would I go?"

"Ah, but you're no longer my pet, Theon," chided Ramsay, sticking to his new game, "You remember the new rules?"

This one had lasted a long time. Theon was not allowed to sleep in the kennels anymore, and no one was allowed to hit him. Ramsay had carved up the face of the last man who had tried to land a blow on him. Even though Theon was pretending not to be a servant anymore. He was Theon now, and everyone had to call him 'my lord', even Sansa, who eyed him with distaste. She turned white whenever he took off his gloves and revealed his scars. She didn't like to be reminded what the monster she had married was capable of.

Theon knew his family would think much the same. They didn't want to be reminded of the weak scion they had begotten.

"My lord, please, let me stay," Theon whimpered, "Take me with you, to, to the D-Dreadfort..."

Ramsay had mused out loud several times, on his plans to return to his family seat, when Rickon was coronated.

"You would willingly return?" Ramsay's eyebrows flew toward his hairline. "A tempting offer. I could do anything with you there, and no one could stop me, you do realise?"

Theon whimpered. But it was a trick question. Theon well knew master's tricks. If he left Winterfell, Ramsay would hunt him down with his hounds, and laugh while they stripped the skin from his bones.

Terrified, and bonelessly tired of feeling so utterly terrified, he sank to his knees.

"Then please, just kill me here," he whispered.

Ramsay ground his teeth together, clenching his fists. He hadn't struck Theon for weeks. He must be desperate to lash out- Theon closed his eyes, tilting his head up to receive the blow. It was always far more pleasant when he didn't try to scramble away. Master liked it best when he was obedient, and came to collect his punishment like the obedient pet he was.

When nothing but silence followed, Theon winced, carefully opening one eye. Maybe master wanted him to watch? Was he going to use his belt?

But Ramsay was watching him with an unfamiliar look. It was not cold fury, nor disgust, or savage glee. He didn't know his master's face could contain any other looks. He remained silently kneeling, despite how much it ached his knees.

At long length, Ramsay sighed. "Silly Theon. Are you trying to be good?"

"Yes, my lord," he said immediately. When he was good, he got treats, like his blanket, and his shoes.

"I know you are," his master cooed.

Ramsay stroked his hair. It was softer than it used to be. Since Ramsay had ordered him to scrub himself regularly, and allowed him to eat real portions of their rations, it had even become somewhat glossy. There were white streaks that had never been present before, making Theon appear a decade or so older than he was in truth. But since Ramsay had stopped starving him before he could lose too much muscle, he retained much of his pre-war shape. Really, the most glaring difference was the mutilation of his hands.

It was a small price to pay, for sacking Winterfell, and causing Bran and Rickon to flee. Rickon yet lived, and found his way home. But Bran... he was crippled, and carried about by an idiot. How could he have survived? In his heart, Theon knew Bran must have died, trying to reach Jon at the Wall, cold and afraid.

He knew what it was to be cold and afraid.

"They're going to crown Rickon as King," Ramsay mused, "It will be a grand affair. What remains of the Northern Houses will be in attendance."

Slowly, he crossed the room and took a seat on Theon's only chair. It was an uncomfortable wooden stool. Theon preferred his straw pallet. There was a blanket, and he could curl up underneath it and pretend he was in the kennels.

"Do you understand why you can't be there?"

Theon frowned. Ramsay didn't often ask him to understand things. It wasn't his job to understand. He had scrambled after his master, and now sat at his feet. Ramsay pushed at one of his bony shoulders, until Theon slumped to the side. Taking the weight off Theon's screaming knees, and encouraging him to curl into Ramsay's legs.

"Think hard, Theon, I know you can."

Theon frowned, slumped against his master's boots. He knew the Northern lords hated him. Shakily, he said so, and Ramsay nodded, encouraging him to continue.

"They don't want me here," he suggested, cautiously. There was no knowing when Ramsay might fly into a rage.

"And?"

"And... they want me to leave?"

Ramsay sighed, feigning fond exasperation, like Theon was a child who could not master his letters.

"Not quite. Think, Theon."

Theon tried. It was an alarming experience. It had been a long time since he had to think further than the latest task he had been appointed. He nibbled at his lower lip. The realisation, when it came, was an icy pit which threatened to suck him in, stomach-first.

"They want me to die."

Pleased, Ramsay hummed, and resumed petting his hair.

*

It had taken Theon many days to understand that Ramsay _didn't_ want him dead. Not by Northern decree, and not by his hounds or sword or arrow. Ramsay wanted Theon to live.

"What if I can't do it?"

"You can, Theon." Ramsay cooed, pushing him toward the large animal.

"What if-"

"Get on the horse, Theon."

Theon scrambled to obey. The beast moved beneath him, restless, agitated by his fear. Theon was lighter than he used to be, and his ankles wielded less power. Still, when he dug them in, the horse moved forward.

Theon gulped, clinging to its neck. Tears gathered in his eyes. He used to love riding. Swift and sure, he had ridden through the wolfswood, and hunted with his bow. Now, it seemed like a dream. But it was real; he had truly done so. Robb had been there...

"There now," Ramsay grinned up at him, "That wasn't so hard, was it? Hmm? Shall we get down now?"

Theon practically threw himself in the dirt, in his haste to obey.

"Very good," Ramsay purred.

Theon shivered. He was beginning to think it might be nice, to leave. Even for a little while, before the hounds hunted him down. If there was one last ride across the plains...

But in the end there had been no hunt. Three days later, Theon and Ramsay had left together, following the King's Road before veering East. East toward White Harbour. East, where Essos ultimately lay.

"You remember what we discussed?"

Theon nodded vigorously. He was wearing a cloak. It was the warmest he could ever remember being. It was a gift, for being good. There was even a sword strapped to his side.

"I'm good," Theon whispered, "I'm good, so slavery is not for me. I have to go, go where I can be good."

"That's right, pet," Ramsay confirmed for very the last time. He reached into his own cloak, and drew a pouch from it, holding it out for him to take. It was a coin-purse, heavy with something. Theon stared at it, lying in his gloved hands. No doubt it was filled with coppers.

But when he scrabbled with the string, the inside glittered with gold. He swallowed thickly, so confused.

Ramsay turned his horse with expect efficiency, drawing up alongside.

"You'll be good, for me, won't you?"

At Theon's confirming stutter, his cruel smile widened. He reached across the space between them, taking Theon's face into both of his strong hands. Ramsay pressed a bruising kiss to Theon's crown, brushing Theon's jaw with the pads of his fingertips.

"You were the most tempting piece," he murmured, in the manner of a man revealing a deep secret, "But I can't keep you both, you see?"

Theon nodded, though he knew not what his master meant. Ramsay had petitioned the Northern lords to dissolve his marriage to Lady Sansa. He didn't have anyone else, excluding his bastard daughter, soon to be recognised as Ingrid Bolton.

"In another life, perhaps. But he would never trust me," said Ramsay, continuing to ramble without making sense, "I can't make him fall in love with me, if he thinks he has to share."

Theon nodded slowly, more confused than ever. He had no idea Ramsay planned on wooing anyone, let alone another man. But it wasn't his duty to know, not anymore. His only business now, was to be good.

"Farewell, Theon," Ramsay chuckled, indulgent and terrifying. "Remember what I taught you."

"Yes, my lord," Theon choked out his final goodbye, "I'll be good."

He waited, stationary, as Ramsay cantered way. Expecting that at any moment, his master would wheel around and come back, or else his hounds would crest the hilly horizon. But Ramsay simply continued on his way, riding into the gathering sunset, until he was a dark grey speck against the burning orange sky. At long length, Theon understood that he was truly alone. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he steeled his spine, and clicked his heels.

His road lay East. To quiet, and sunrises, and goodness.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment! Fan communities need to stick together, and reviewing is the best way to let a writer/artist know you're out there.


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